Chapter IX
Mellis and her brother had left Gawdy Town lying behind them on the blue edge of the sea. The day was very young, and a north wind came over the marshes about the mouth of the Rondel river, bending the reeds in the dykes and rousing ripples in the lengthening grass. Mellis was mounted on a modest nag whose brown coat and sleepy ears were more suited to the russet cloak she wore than to the brighter colors underneath it. Gilbert marched at her side. His eyes looked gray in the morning; the north wind had pinched his courage a little; and he and Mellis were to part for a while.
“Keep your heart up, sweet sister.”
She looked down at him and smiled. Her eyes were steadier than his, and more determined, and she was less touched by the north wind. His nature was more mercurial, more restless, not so patient when life’s adventure dragged.
“I feel near home, Gilbert. I think I could live in the Forest—like a wild thing.”
“Woodmere must be all green, and the lilies white on the water. The house is but a shell, they say.”
Her eyes filled with a great tenderness.
“My heart is there,” she said, sighing.
A flock of sheep passed them, being driven to the river pastures. A great wood-wain came rumbling along, loaded high with brown fagots. Mellis’s nostrils dilated, and her eyes shone.
“What a good ship, and what merchandise! I can smell the Forest.”